The Perfectionists

Chapter 7

"STRINGS, I CAN BARELY HEAR you!" Mrs. Rabinowitz shouted, gesturing at the violins. "That crescendo needs to be powerful!" Jane sat in a small chair in the Auradon Prep music wing, her cello wedged between her knees. It was Monday and Mrs. Rabinowitz was making them rehearse Mahler's funeral march. She'd added it to the fall concert program, in memory of Ben.

The room smelled like the floral Febreze spray Mrs. Rabinowitz always sprayed before practice, and there were pictures of famous conductors and composers on the wall—a persnickety Mozart, a scattered-looking Beethoven, a haughty Scarlatti, who Jane thought was always following her around the room with his discerning gaze. Today she felt as if they were all glaring at her, condemning her for what she'd done to Ben. She still couldn't wrap her mind around it. Was someone really trying to frame them?

You were the one who sent out those photos, a punishing voice in her head said. You really think that trick that techie guy from band camp taught you to set up a fake email address is going to fly with the cops? They're going to find you.

Next to her, Lonnie-currently the second-chair cellist to Jane's first-chair-leaned back and forth with the music as they played. When they got to the end of the page in the sheet music, Lonnie hurriedly flipped the page and fumbled her bow. It was always the second chair who turned the pages. Jane knew the duty well: She and Lonnie were always swapping positions, the two of them almost equally talented.

When Jane glanced up again, the room was silent, and Mrs. R was staring at her. "Jane, you're a half beat off." Jane blinked. "I am?" Mrs. R nodded. "You didn't notice?"Jane started to panic. Was she that out of it? Lonnie glanced at Jane sympathetically. "We're all a little distracted today."

That was an understatement. All day, Jane had been on the verge of hyperventilating. What made it worse was the announcement when everyone returned to class after lunch. Social workers are on call for anyone who needs extra support right now. And please, if you have any information about the party, please talk to a teacher or a counselor—no questions asked.

No questions asked. The words kept swirling through Mac's mind as she ran her bow across her strings. Maybe they should step forward. What if they'd seen something important, something they didn't even realize? Maybe they could help catch the real killer. "Psst."

Jane looked over. Lonnie sat with her cello bow resting lightly on her instrument. She pulled out a brown paper bag and handed it over.

"I got these for you," Lonnie whispered. Jane peeked inside. Mini gummy violins lay in a pile almost to the top. Gummies were her favorite food, and the violins were hard to find—you could only get them at a specialty candy shop in Seattle.

She looked at Lonnie. "What's this for?"
Her friend shrugged. "A pick-me-up. You've seemed down lately." There was no malice in her expression. No snarky, underhanded manipulation, only a kind, earnest look. A sour taste welled in Jane's mouth. You kissed her boyfriend, a voice chided. You said something terrible about her in film studies. And it's too late to take any of it back. For the first time in her life, Jane wondered if she was a truly awful person.

Suddenly, the door to the music room swung open, and all heads swiveled up. Two men in suits stepped inside. They looked around for a moment, their eyes raking over the symphony. Mrs. Rabinowitz gave a little jump and turned to face them, too. "Sorry to interrupt," the first man said. He was huge—at least six foot six—and dark-skinned, in a charcoal-gray suit. His voice was a booming baritone that filled the space effortlessly.

Mrs. Rabinowitz stepped off the riser. Next to him she looked tiny, like a little round teddy bear in her fuzzy brown cardigan. "What can we do for you?"

"I'm Detective Peters. This is my partner, Detective McMinnamin. We're trying to gather some information about what happened at the party the other night. Can we take a few minutes of your class's time?"

Mrs. Rabinowitz gestured for him to take over, but McMinnamin stepped forward instead. He was a skinny, pale man with rabbity front teeth, and he held a stack of four-by-six index cards in his hand. He looked around the room, his eyes narrowed.

"I'm going to pass out these cards, and I want all of you to write the alphabet on one side and your names on the other." His voice was brisk and no-nonsense. "Uppercase letters, please. Print, not cursive." Kenleigh Robbins, who played viola, raised her hand. "Do I have to?" "Of course not," McMinnamin said almost automatically. "But we will take note of anyone who doesn't participate."

He started handing out the cards. Jane stiffened as he passed by her music stand, his eyes lingering on her for a moment before he moved on. She knew what was going on. They needed a handwriting sample. Her mind scattered, and she tried to remember exactly what she'd written on Nolan's body that Friday night. She'd started a frowny face with heavy eyebrows, then written LIAR in all caps.

Slowly, she lowered her cello to its stand and grabbed her sheet-music folder to write on. With trembling hands, she printed out the letters one by one, trying to make them slightly more slanted than the block lettering she'd used on Ben's skin.

When everyone was finished, McMinnamin picked up the index cards. Peters took a dry-erase marker and scrawled a phone number and his name on the whiteboard. "I know how these parties go," he said affably, a trace of a smile playing around his lips. "No one wants to admit they were there, because it'll get everyone in trouble." Then his affect changed, his mouth turning downward, his eyes serious. "But something bad happened to one of your own." He paused to let that sink in. "We want to know what happened. And we need your help for that. I am asking anyone who was at the party that night—whether you saw Ben or not—to give me a call at this number. You might know details that will help us get a sense of the timeline. Everything you tell me will be completely confidential."

Jane swallowed hard. Then she felt someone's hand in hers. Lonnie's fingers held tight. Her lips were trembling. Jane gawked at her, surprised. "Are you okay?" Lonnie shook her head. "We were at that party. It means we'll have to talk to them. I'll have to talk to them." So? Jane wanted to say. What did Lonnie have to feel guilty about? They'd gone to Ben's party together, but Lonnie had disappeared the minute she caught sight of Carlos.

Detective Peters gave their teacher a pleasant nod. "Thanks so much for your time." He exchanged a meaningful glance with Detective McMinnamin, and they both slipped out into the hallway. Jane peeked at Lonnie again. Her knees were jumpy, and she was biting her thumbnail to the quick. "Hey," Jane said softly, touching Lonnie's hand. "If you're worried about talking to the cops, don't be. I'm sure it will be fine. They're going to be nice. You didn't do anything." But I did, a voice in her head said.

Lonnie's throat bobbed as she swallowed. "Thanks," she said shakily. "I don't know why I'm so nervous." She squeezed Jane's hand again and took a few deep breaths. Jane's phone beeped. She peeked into her bag at the screen. New text from Carlos, it read. Her heart started to pound. She whipped it out and read it, hiding it from Lonnie's view. Hey, Carlos wrote. Need to work on new sets. Extra practice this week? My house, tomorrow night at 7?

Jane held the phone between her hands, deliberating. She didn't understand what had happened between them that night at Cupcake Kingdom. The only time she'd seen him since the kiss was at Matt Hill's party, where Lonnie had led Carlos toward the big cushion-filled den, leaving Jane alone by the snack table, holding both their beers. Reminding her that yes, Carlos had kissed her, but he was with Lonnie, and Lonnie was her best friend.

Her gaze fell to the bag of gummy violins on the ground. She looked at Lonnie next, her face so vulnerable and open. From this day forward, Jane would be a different person. A better person. Which meant she'd never kiss Carlos again.

I guess so, but it'll have to be quick. Audition's looming, she typed, and sent off the text. There. Hopefully that sounded clinical. Uninterested. Like she was just another member of his band.

Then she deleted his text, wishing she could erase the memory of their kiss just as easily.